


Who Died And Made You King?

by Johnlocked221b



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dark Oswald Cobblepot, Masturbating to murder, Masturbation, Oswald is a sinner, Oswald is a slut, Oswald is a slut for murder, Oswald is a slut for power, Other, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, dark themes, major sinning, sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlocked221b/pseuds/Johnlocked221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald remembers his sins and his rise to power. Pretty much shameless Os!wank smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Died And Made You King?

 

 

          Oswald’s home is in Gotham. Truly. The grimy streets and polluted air create the perfect backdrop to his underdog story. His home is feeding on herself.  Her children tear at her flesh and rip bone from muscle; blow her to pieces and paint crude words on her walls.

 

_“Call Sarah for a good time.”_

 

 

          Oh but he’s already having a great time. He’s the king of his home. Finally. Bullies and demons be damned. They were his slaves now. Oswald always knew they were cowards. He always knew he’d be the one looking down upon them one day; spitting in their faces and making them feel small. The prey became the predator. And he wasn’t going to fucking waste it.

 

 

          Oswald smirked at himself in the mirror and then giggled. His smile looked twisted and crooked in the broken, dirty glass. Stained yellow and full of secrets. He’d washed his hands of them. All of them; the germs of his past. He was going to be great. A great and strong man. A man his mother would be proud of.

 

 

_Was she proud of him?_

 

 

          His smile instantly faded and he grimaced, gripping the edge of the sink tight. The doubt was sharp in his chest. A knife turned on its master. His hand shook as he studied his own pale green eyes. They were both empty and full at the same time.

 

 

_He’d made it. He’d done it. He was king. He was king of Gotham.  He was a great man. He’d made it._

 

 

          He pressed his lips into a tight line when he realized he’d been muttering this aloud. He closed his eyes and saw.

 

 

_He saw Frankie Carbone’s death first. Played out like a movie before him. He could smell him. Residual cigar smoke, body odor, and cheap cologne. Cheap. God he was so fucking cheap. That’s what made it so easy._

 

 

          Oswald’s breath shuddered as he palmed at himself. He was rapidly growing hard with the thought of all of his sins. The power in each one was intoxicating. Maddening.

 

 

_He could still feel Carbone’s fist collide with his middle, almost sending him to his knees.  It was a welcome pain. Oswald would pay him back tenfold. He’d been expecting it. Frankie was so cocky. So sure he’d caught Oswald in one of his master plans. Such a fool he was. It was almost sickening. Oswald allowed him to feel strong…allowed him to pull him close and threaten him. He allowed him the upper-hand and it made the fall so much sweeter._

 

 

_Oswald’s shuddering breath almost gave him away. Fuck he enjoyed it. Frankie was so confident; so sure he’d won the game, so ready to murder Oswald in cold blood. Oswald could feel it. He fucking relished it. Frankie was so wrong and Oswald felt the pure rush of being, once again, the smartest man in the room._

 

 

_The look on Frankie’s face when he was held vulnerable was the whipped topping on Oswald’s dessert and the feeling of his blade sinking into flesh was the delicious drag of his spoon through mousse. It was smooth and prompted Oswald to go back in for another bite._

 

 

          Oswald’s hand shook as he slipped it down the front of his trousers. He held in a gasp as his cold fingers wrapped tight around his shaft.

 

 

_In the haze of pleasure he saw Timothy. It was truly a shame he had to kill the poor boy.  A shame indeed. He was sure, in different circumstances, that they may have been great friends. Timothy had scared eyes. Big and brown and wet with fear. His fear was real and raw and it was Oswald he feared. What had he done? Well…nothing. It was rather what he represented.  By killing Timothy, Oswald was symbolically killing his old self. He was killing the shivering, whimpering boy that had come to Fish Mooney begging for a job. He was killing the obedient wet rag he’d become at her hand. Poor Timothy. He’d given Oswald the information he needed. He’d been compliant and obedient and a coward. He was a fucking coward. Which is why no one ever found his body. Just like no one would ever see that piece of Oswald again._

 

 

          Oswald stroked himself slowly. His palm was so callused and rough against red, hot sensitive skin. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a series of short gasps as his thumb gathered pre-cum from his tip and spread it around his head.

 

 

 _Next was the delivery man. There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t kill the messenger.’ Well this messenger was just the flies on top of the shit that had become his every waking moment. Everything was going to hell and he’d be damned if Maroni wasn’t going down with it. The pain he’d caused his mother…the position he’d put her in…unable to trust the only family she had left. It was too much for a day. And then he had the fucking_ audacity _to send her flowers. He’d used Oswald’s precious mother to get back at him and then sent her roses; red for romance._ As if. _‘Sorry your relationship with your monster son is ruined, Gertrud’ they screamed, ‘I promise it’s not your fault that your little boy turned out to be a violent sociopath.’ Maroni was nothing but a bully. He was a coward and a fool and he’d get what he deserved. So Oswald mixed red with red and he took out the trash, being sure to dump those blasted roses with the body._

 

 

          The thrill of that rage kill had Oswald’s hand shaking around himself, squeezing at the base of his cock and twisting his wrist on the upstroke. His gasps turned into short moans as the next sin infiltrated his mind’s eye.

 

 

_He could still hear her scream. Pushing her over was no easy task. Oswald liked that. Count on Fish to always put up a wicked fight. Even still, Oswald was only just able to overpower her. He had the element of surprise on his side and the force of his little body against hers sent her toppling over the edge and into the dark, rocky waters below. He remembered thinking ‘Swim little fishy~’ in pure delight. It was over too soon…and like a flash he was the king. The king of everything he saw. Falcone stepped down, Maroni had a smoking hole between his eyes, and Fish was…well, “swimming with the fishes.” Oswald was king._

 

 

          The rush still felt so fucking good. Oswald had to still his hand to keep from finishing too soon. He needed to enjoy it. He wanted to feel the power, the rush of blood in his ears and the nerves shooting from his groin to his brain and back again like electricity under his skin. His cheeks dimpled as he grinned to himself, recalling the intense moment of pure power he felt balancing on that ledge. Perfect balance and perfect control. Slowly, as the rush faded, he went on.

 

 

_He remembered every kill he made during his rule. Every person who vexed him. Everyone who underestimated him. Everyone who had ever bullied him. Snuffed out like lights. One by one as Oswald watched from his throne. He didn’t even have to get his hands dirty anymore. It was a blessing and a curse, really. He so loved the smell of blood._

 

His hand worked his shaft faster with each cold blooded murder he remembered. Faster still as he imagined all of his little ants scurrying about to please him. Perhaps fear and love were of the same parents. They felt extremely similar and Oswald bathed in them. Oswald had everything he needed…and yet nothing. His poor mother…missing. Scared and alone…at the hands of that psychopath. Not only did Galavan use Gertrud against him, he killed her. He took away Oswald’s light. He took away any connection to goodness Oswald still had. He ripped it from his hands as if ripping a teddy bear from a baby and thus left a void. A cold pit where his heart used to be.

 

 

          How fitting. A penguin with a heart of ice.

 

 

          Gritting his teeth against the pain that fueled him, Oswald continued fucking into his hand, only slightly picking up the sloppy wet sounds as he tilted his head back and squinted his eyes shut. He needed to feel every fucking second of the next bit. The grand finale.

 

 

 _He needed to feel the_ crunch _of bones under the baseball bat. He needed to hear the snapping and popping and the whimpers Galavan made. He needed to hear him cry out. He needed to smell the blood; metallic and sweet as it hung in the air, thick like Oswald’s grief. He needed to see flesh turn to pulp with every home-run he hit. He needed to taste the heady air of death as he beat the ever-loving fuck out of the man who’d caused him the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life._

 

 

          Oswald stroked himself quicker and quicker, moaning with reckless abandon at the ceiling now.  

 

 

_The gunshot brought a welcome end. Oswald’s eyes crawled up the barrel of the gun that made it, over the arm that held it, and to the face of the man that dealt it. Vacant, dark eyes of a man Oswald had come to trust with his life. He wasn’t angry that it was Jim Gordon who got the last shot. It felt strangely right. Pride surged through his heart and heat through his lower stomach and with one simple glance at Jim he was finished._

 

 

          Oswald’s heart pounded in his ears and his vision was filled with light as he came all over himself, covering his hand and the inside of his trousers with a broken, raspy cry and a shudder that shook him from head to toe and painted both sets of knuckles white. He leaned over the sink like that, jaw slack and hand lazily working his sensitive cock, panting circles of heat onto the glass of the mirror.

 

 

          “Cobblepot! There you are. Doctor Strange has been looking all over for you.“

 

 

          Oswald spun on his heel and blinked at the orderly in surprise, yanking his hand out of his striped trousers. The orderly grimaced at him in disgust. “Jesus…clean yourself up. Doctor Strange is waiting.”

 

 

          Oswald opened and closed his mouth, cheeks flushing pink and freckled as he rinsed his shaking hand in the sink. Before he could dry, the orderly had him by the arm and was dragging him out of the bathroom, causing Oswald to stumble a bit over his bad leg.

 

 

          “Please…” He whimpered, reality hitting him full-force as he was practically dragged down the hallway. “I just want to go home. I don’t belong here.”

 

 

          Oswald was shoved into the circular white room he feared more than anything. It took four orderlies to strap him into the chair in the middle and place the bar between his teeth.

 

 

          “Of course you belong here, Mr. Cobblepot,” a smooth, dangerous voice taunted through the overhead speakers. “You are a king after all…and _this_ is your throne.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It is currently 6 in the morning so there may be some little mistakes here and there but I find that I tend to write better at 4am than any other time of day so there ya go.


End file.
